


Burning Times

by Suzie Shooter Archive (Suzie_Shooter)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Healing Kisses, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 02:37:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11911446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie%20Shooter%20Archive
Summary: Hell is after Crowley. Aziraphale is determined they shan't have him.(First posted on LJ, 9th Sept 2007)





	Burning Times

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 日本語 available: [日本語訳：火の刻 - Burning Times by Suzie_Shooter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12959733) by [pinecrunch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinecrunch/pseuds/pinecrunch)



When something hit the front door of the shop, Aziraphale looked up with annoyance, assuming either an assault by a particularly determined bibliophile (the 'closed' sign was up, not to mention the fact it was three in the morning) or the sort of early hours Soho goings on that would necessitate the repainting of the door in the morning (or at least going to the effort of a small forest-green-gloss-sized miracle). 

However, the initial noise was followed by silence, and curiosity got the better of him. Opening the door cautiously he at first thought there was no-one there, until a scuffling noise made him look down.

Crumpled in a heap on the doorstep, arms twisted round his own body as though holding himself together by force of will alone was - 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale dropped to his knees, looking at the demon in shock. Crowley's face was flushed and his expression was one of someone in intense pain. "What happened? What - " He reached out a hand to Crowley's face and drew it back in shock. The demon's skin was _hot_.

Crowley reached out with his own hand, grasped Aziraphale's sleeve. Pulled him close enough that the angel could hear his hoarse whisper.

"Help me."

Pulling the shaking demon into his arms, Aziraphale half-carried him into the back room and laid him on the battered couch, dropping to the floor beside him.

"Crowley what's wrong with you? What's happening?" he demanded.

"They're - trying to pull me back. They've stopped arguing about - about whose fault it was and decided what they really want is a scapegoat. Me." Crowley's face twisted in pain, and his hands clenched into fists.

Aziraphale took one of Crowley's hands in his, and was horrified to find it now scalding hot. 

"Tell me how to help you. There must be something - "

Crowley winced. "I don't think so. It's - so hard - to hang onto this form. It feels like I'm being pulled apart. Pulled Down. I just - I didn't want to - I wanted you to know. Where I'd gone. Didn't want - to go - without saying - goodbye." Every word was forced out with immense effort, as Aziraphale looked on in horror.

"You can't - don't leave me," whispered the angel. 

Crowley opened eyes full of pain and managed a tight smile. "I'm sorry. It's - been fun."

Aziraphale pulled him into his arms and held him tightly, mind racing. Noticed in a daze that Crowley's suit was starting to smoke.

"You said they need a scapegoat. Does it have to be you?"

Crowley laughed, a dry, humourless rattle. "Hastur. They'd take Hastur. Bigger cheese. But he's too well hidden. I couldn't find him."

Aziraphale stood up, gently lowering Crowley back to the couch. "But I could." 

"How?" Crowley rasped. "If I couldn't - "

Aziraphale looked down at him, and the look in his eye was one Crowley had never seen before. He shivered, despite the infernal heat coursing through his body.

"Because I have resources with a slightly Higher vantage point. Don't - go anywhere. I'll be as quick as I can."

Before Crowley could object, the angel was gone. 

To the eyes of God, no things are hidden. The fall of a sparrow. The heart of a telesales clerk. Or the camouflage of a Duke of Hell.

Aziraphale slammed back into the shop, barely two minutes after leaving. The sight that met his eyes almost took him back to his knees.

Crowley's clothes had burnt away to smouldering rags and the demon writhed naked on the floor of the back room, wracked with pain, wings crumpled beneath him.

As Aziraphale watched, a column of flame shot up from the floorboards, encircling the demon's form. The buzzing of a thousand flies filled the room, and a voice seemingly nowhere and everywhere muttered "Gotcha."

"Oh no you don't!" yelled Aziraphale, and he thrust his hand into the pillar of fire and seized Crowley's arm. Heaving, with his other arm he thrust forward the cowering figure of Hastur he had clenched by the scruff of the neck. Hastur toppled, screaming invective, into the circle. 

It winked out with an ear-splitting crack, taking Hastur with it.

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, almost afraid of what he would see.

The demon stared back, yellow eyes filled with a flaring madness and terror, skin burnt and wings charred. Then he took a shuddering breath, clawing back sanity through strength of will alone. 

He sagged, and Aziraphale caught him.

Crowley clung to him, naked form shaking in Aziraphale's embrace.

"It's alright. It's okay now," murmured the angel, comfortingly.

"Hurts," managed Crowley.

Aziraphale kissed him gently on the forehead. Crowley looked up in wonder as the pain lessened minutely, and Aziraphale realised that where he had kissed, the skin was clear and unmarked.

Calmly, thoroughly, without hesitation or embarrassment, the angel proceeded to map the demon's body with soft, healing kisses. Stroked long fingers through the abused wings, shaking out the burnt feathers and re-settling them carefully.

Only once Crowley had been healed from head to toe, did the angel look him in the eyes once more. Lying in Aziraphale's lap, watching the angel with an unreadable expression, Crowley met his gaze.

"Thank you," he said, quietly sincere. 

Crowley reached for Aziraphale's hand, and his eyes widened, for the angel's arm, the one he had reached into the fire for Crowley with, was blackened and scarred.

He looked at Aziraphale with sudden unaccustomed guilt, but the angel hushed him gently.

"It's okay. It's healing already, look," and he held up the hand, and brushed at the peeling skin to reveal unmarked flesh underneath.

Crowley took the hand in both his own, and drew it to his face. Kissed it gently, and proceeded to lap, cat-like at the skin with a rough and forked tongue, until it was once more whole and perfect.

Aziraphale smiled his thanks, opened his mouth to speak, then for the first time, hesitated.

"What is it?" asked Crowley, wondering what could be giving the angel pause after everything he had just done for the demon without the slightest demur.

In answer, Aziraphale laid one finger softly against Crowley's lips. He understood. The one, single place Aziraphale had not kissed was Crowley's mouth. His lips, still cracked and sore from the heat, smiled under Aziraphale's finger. And kissed it.

Aziraphale leaned forward, slowly, and removed his finger. Crowley craned up to meet him, and their lips met.

Aziraphale could feel the lips heal and soften beneath his own. But it was a long time before he pulled away.

\--


End file.
